


The punchline’s in the conjugation

by lifewithoutcosette



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 year old pining, Air Conditioning, Don't copy to another site, Drabble, Fluff, Gentleness, Idiots in Love, M/M, They support each other through hard times, ineffable husbands, pompeii mention, the crusades mention, they were destined to be together, wrote this in a free hour at work while procrastinating writing angst lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2020-09-02 12:18:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20275804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lifewithoutcosette/pseuds/lifewithoutcosette





	The punchline’s in the conjugation

When they’re perched on rooftops or in cafes, time slows. It might as well stop altogether, they are not paying attention to any other thing within the universe. It feels like it will never end, this time together. And it really doesn’t, not in any way we’re used to - we wave goodbye and disappear around corners to catch the bus, we dip into cabs after warm hugs and promises to talk soon, but we fade out of other people’s lives in a very real way most of the time. With the angel and the demon there’s always a connection there - even as forks and knives are correctly laid on plates to politely indicate dinner is over, as chairs scoot back under tables, as the rush of civilization crowds around them again on the sidewalk. 

As time resumes in full again it can’t be denied that they share a kind of aloneness that is unique in the world, and that keeps them bound to one another. The low level hum of ineffable immortality connecting them across continents, across _millennia._

They are omnipresent in one another’s lives and they may have realized that fact the very second they spotted each other in Eden, but they’ve forgotten what that connection really feels like over six thousand years. 

Well, it feels like this:

The time Crowley plucked a newborn, abandoned and squalling, from the streets of Pompeii in the nick of time, cradling the poor thing against his chest as he flew high into the sky, the world burning beneath them. How Aziraphale had appeared at his shoulder some time later as Crowley stooped to lay the child, whimpering, at the doorstep of a well off Nepalese family. 

The way his wings had drooped thinking of the poor thing’s family, and how Aziraphale had placed a steadying hand on his shoulder as the babe looked up at them. “Did you miracle her discomfort away, Angel?” For the tiny thing was now quietly contemplating them both with big eyes. “No,” Aziraphale whispered. “She quietened when I touched you. Isn’t that odd?”

Neither of them could know the strength, the surety, their combined presence held. It radiated comfort and warmth to the child and, as the sun rose and the immortal beings retreated, she lapsed into what her new parents would think of as divine sleep...for who but God would grant them such a joyous gift?

It feels like this;

The first time Aziraphale’s hand finds his on some blood soaked hill in the Mediterranean. The way the air is suddenly calm around them, their skin warmer where they meet. Crowley wouldn’t pull away if he could. This means_ I can’t believe Heaven has done this, _and Crowley’s answering squeeze gives him quiet validation, support. _ But not **you** Angel. Never you. _

All silent.

The way some things can’t be said aloud, even between them, for fear of reprisal. But hilltops can have ethereal figures perched on them well into morning hours - unmoving, surveying the immeasurable loss of life together.

It feels like shelter offered on a dismal night, the cozy, dimly lit bookshop a welcome refuge from impenetrable rain muddying the streets.

It feels like a daring rescue at the eleventh hour when hunger defies even the best common sense. 

It feels like a four thousand year old joke in a dead language that still makes one of them blush, and the way it’s always the same one of them who tells it for the simple wish of seeing the color in those cheeks.

It feels like love.


End file.
